Her Crowning Glory
by DahliaASant
Summary: Maybe all good things had to come to an end. Selina didn't believe in fate, but she knew she was destined to become Catwoman, and to leave Bruce behind. Life, after all, could be cruel. SelinaxBruce, CatwomanxBatman, Post-Dark Knight Rises
1. Chapter 1

**1. Nostalgia**

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Author's Notes: Thank you for taking the time to read my story. This is ultimately Catwoman's origin story as I see it based on the Nolanverse, and, of course, with a dark twist to it. For those of you that know me from my Dark Knight fanfiction, I apologize for being dormant for so long (give or take a few years)-I simply lacked the inspiration to continue Don't Fear the Reaper, and hopefully I will be getting to it again soon. I was always a fan of Catwoman and was itching to try a 'fic centered around Selina Kyle and her post Dark Knight Rises fate.

I will DEFINITELY try to update a chapter a week, no longer than that. Please read & review and I hope you enjoy it!

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The sun dipped low beneath the crest of the horizon, and Selina Kyle was finally at peace, night covering her body like a feline's black fur.

She raised her hand up to her eyes, turning the milky white limb back and forth, examining the intricate lines on her palms, as if it were markings on an alien. Her brown eyes lingered on the ring resting upon her slender finger-a generously cut stone, gleaming under the winking moonlight. It was precious and beyond expensive-perhaps the cost of a middle-class house. And at that moment it looked worthless to her, insignificant in comparison to the dark world ebbing and flowing before her reach.

It wasn't the first night she had felt like a stranger within her own skin. She raised her head to feel the cold wind billowing past her from her balcony, savored the feeling of it flying through her hair, caressing her head with nocturnal tenderness. Almost instinctively, her ears perked up at a sound nearby-but it was probably someone walking just past the manor; no one who could pose a real threat.

The realization was almost disappointing.

She looked back down at her hands and imagined black, leather gloves binding them; the razor-sharp tips of nails that could slice through flesh. She imagined the black mask on her face, heavy yet never confining, never frustrating. The weight was a reminder of who she was, _what_she really was beyond her flesh and bone and beating heart.

She wondered how much longer she could go on masquerading as Selina Kyle. As someone she..._wasn't_, despite having the face, the name, the demeanor.

A soft smile curled her lips, maybe in resignation, maybe in self-pity-she looked out at the horizon again from outside the manor, at the silhouettes of homes in seemingly endless rows, fading into the blackness of night, lit up by the intermittent glow of stars, occasionally interrupted by the harsh fluorescence of streetlights. They were tempting, so tempting-holding promises of valuables within their depths, the wealthy streets taunting her like lines of drugs at her feet, taunting and teasing for her touch...

Selina knew very well that your face was never who you were.

Your skin, your freckles, your eyes, your lips, teeth, tongue-it was all appearance, all facade. It could be manipulated, all of it-from your hair down to your toes, from the way you moved to the way you breathed. She knew it, she always did-which was why hiding from herself was so painful, so pointless. Why watching passersby while on the arm of her lover slowly ate away at her resolve, why she felt powerless as she helplessly eyed the necklace on a woman's vulnerable collarbone, pined for the gleaming wristwatch on a man's naked, outstretched arm. It was unnatural, almost torturous, her ability to do nothing in the wake of such easy prey.

Because what she was, what she_ really_ was, would cry out at every single one of those moments-to act, to breathe, to _be. _

She didn't have a name for it. Not really.

Over twenty years of acknowledging the true side of her-the lone..._cat_ within her, manipulating and beguiling, taking whatever she pleased on this green glorious earth from whoever she wished, since life was fleeting and rules were made for the benefit of the elite, _by_the elite. She hadn't really given herself a true name, besides what had been bestowed by her parents before she had graced an orphanage.

But then, were names _really_necessary? Of course, to him they were-she looked back at the hallway behind her for a moment as her thoughts focused on the man within, and her finger swept to her ring. She caressed the top and bit down on her rouge-stained lip, wondering if he was asleep.

He had retired. They had relocated, together-a phone call after his presumed death, after his self-sacrifice as Gotham's Jesus, dropping the bomb and pulling at her heartstrings to the point of breaking when she saw his number appear in fractured digits on her cell-and she had run to him, swept herself into his arms without a second thought.

Selina knew loss. She had grown accustomed to it since birth. It was like winter, cold and inevitable, something she had learned to live with, to wear a toughened surface to bear it and wait until its iciness dissolved away with time. But the thought of losing _him_had been too much to bear, something akin to a physical pain, the ice tearing at her skin and threatening to burst the bubbling blood within until she was nothing but a husk of herself.

Selina had never been so afraid to lose anyone._ Never_, since she never allowed herself to get close to anyone-and perhaps it was for that very reason, the inevitability of loss. She was the type that always gained; she received, she acquired, she took, she possessed. She did not _lose_things, unless she did so willingly. If something was taken from her, she would conspire to get it back. The rule didn't apply to people. People were not objects-they played to your mind games to a certain extent, until they realized their strings were being pulled, and then they became violent and uncooperative.

But this...had been different. _Bruce_was different.

And maybe, she thought, as she began to pace along the halls of the manor, her bare feet gliding across the marble tiled floor, it was because he had so wrongly insisted there was more to her than meets the eye..more to her than what she knew she _really_was.

"There's so much more to you," He had told her time and time again, gazing at her with his steady penetrating stare, from the depths of his mask, from the depths of their bed, with his hand caressing her face, as he took her, tried to possess her, tried to unlock her. Time and time he would try, but he did not know that her insides were a brick wall that couldn't so easily be penetrated-regardless of her feelings for him, feelings she wasn't even willing to completely analyze for fear of them devouring her whole, feelings that were acknowledged by the rock on her finger, the manor that entrapped her within its depths each day, the bed she shared, the skin she sought pleasure in.

But there wasn't more to her. Bruce was mistaken. He may have been the Batman, and he may have retired his persona in name-but there was something very basic to both their natures that Selina knew could never be unraveled. It was what brought them together in the first place-the masquerade, the way they hid behind their identities so diligently, the way they sought power and claimed it behind a flimsy costume and pretty little weapons.

She knew who they really were. Their masks were the faces they wore each day-Bruce and Selena, dancing their little dance, the dance they had started at Miranda Tate's ball, that they had never truly ended. In their depths, they were truly Batman and...whatever _she_ was. The feline sort of creature within her-the creature that even Bruce could not unravel, with his charm and his passion, his crow-eyed smile and shining white teeth.

She held her hand out as she passed rows of paintings in the hall. The manor was ridiculously large for only two people, but of course, that was what Bruce had been used to, having been raised with the silver spoon in his mouth and golden diapers. A smirk graced her lips as she imagined her razor-tipped nails digging in and ripping apart each pretty little portrait, each thousand dollar painted piece of paper to insignificant little shreds. And then she would disembowel the insides of the paintings, pull their pretty golden frames and take them for herself, a shining beacon of example that even those in power were fragile, as fragile as the poor they oppressed, hidden and locked away behind the keys of their manors and fancy halls...

Of course, that was her _husband_she was thinking so vehemently of.

She stopped herself mid-thought at this realization, her lip curling, her hands closing on a fist against the last portrait she passed.

_Well,_ she thought to herself, raising an arched brow as she reached the heavy set of double doors, _if you can't beat 'em..._

She found him lying there in the massive bed for two, its trappings gaudy beyond reason (as always), black silk sheets and perhaps ten pillows, and a mattress you could sink for miles into, as if you were diving into the depths of bejeweled bliss. He looked as statuesque as a god, as if he belonged there, strewn along the ornate sheets. She could see the age on him, the vulnerability that no one else could see-it had become more translucent to her the longer she had stayed with him. His hands trembled slightly as he slept, along with his slightly parted lips. His chest had been immaculately chiseled, but now it was turning soft and thin, a slight trace of ribcage peeking beneath. He wore loose pants, like a prince in his harem-she preferred him this way, lying down and vulnerable. And at that moment, he was _almost_like an object, she mused, as she pulled herself on top of him with lithe agility, her nimble fingers stroking his hair with a careful sweep across his forehead, light enough not to wake him.

It was almost like he was truly hers. Like she had conquered him, somehow-and maybe that was her fantasy. That she could _steal_ him, disarm his inner strength and dominate him utterly and completely.

She brought her lips to his, felt the sharp yet steady intake of his breath. Her brown eyes gleaming in the moonlight, she licked his bottom lip gently, grinned against him when she heard his breath stop for a second in response, then resume again. Selina ran red-nailed fingers down his chest, imagined raking into them in the throes of passion, as she had done countless times before-ran her fingers along the tiny scars on his stomach as proof, her _personal_signature.

How she wished he could accept her-could accept her in her cat-eared, thieving glory; could even accompany her on a heist, his billowing cape flying through the air as they masqueraded along the streets of Gotham at night, fighting and pillaging as two lovers reclaiming what was rightfully the people's from the rich, bringing them to justice in a different, entirely satisfying way. But Selina was no fool, and she knew it was and always would be a mere fantasy. Bruce was a different creature than her-maybe that was what enraptured her in the first place, she mused, as she looked down at his sleeping form between her legs, as she silently straddled him and ran her fingers along him like a pretty jewel in her grip.

"Can't you set me free?" She whispered so quietly, it sounded like the wind rushing through the opened windows of his huge bedroom, ruffling the sheets of the bed ever so slightly. Her mouth was pressed against his earlobe, and she nipped it gently-laughing to herself against his ear. He was still asleep, and here she was, making late-night confessions to him. She pressed her forehead against his temple, the bow of her lips touching his ear again, and she relished the contact of skin, although momentary,

"To be honest...I like being your captive. But you can't keep a cat from scratching the post _forever_,"

Her voice sounded like a hiss, even to her own ears.

And then she fought back a scream from her own lips as a hand clamped around her neck.

"I can't," Bruce responded to her surprise, his eyes open, an amused smirk on his warm features, "But she can scratch me all she wants, in the meantime. Keeps things more interesting that way. Objectifies me."

Selina yelped as Bruce flipped her over so that he was on top of her. She had been taken completely by surprise, and it had awakened something primal within her-the familiar adrenaline rush accompanying the heists within her past, pumping blood viciously through her veins, her heart fluttering as he pinned her down beneath him, a primal grin on his strong features,

"What makes you want to come out to play tonight, Miss Kyle? I thought you didn't want to come to bed. If I had known you'd been willing..." He cast a mischievous grin as his eyes raked the length of her body, simultaneously bringing his warm hand to her bare thigh. Her own hand clamped against his and she squeezed, her smile a perfect mirror of his own,

"Well, Mr. Wayne, maybe _this_ little girl wanted to play hard to get, so the conquest would be more..._satisfying_." She met his gaze with a raised brow, licking her lips momentarily. He released his hand from her neck and laughed quietly, and she grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him into a long, hungry kiss.

It seemed to last forever, and that was how she liked it-all tongue, less talk. And if there was talk, she preferred the biting sarcasm-better than normalcy, since that was fleeting, and ultimately _boring._And Bruce knew that, of course; he kept up with her mood-swings with an odd patience that perplexed her.

It was, to her dismay, Bruce who broke the kiss. He took a breath and pressed his nose against hers, before inquiring coolly, his penetrating gaze awakening knots of desire within her stomach,

"What's bothering you, Selina?" His hand strayed to stroke her face, and she ripped her gaze away, taken aback by surprise the second time that night. Could he really read her so well?-had she become some sort of open book, the pages already worn with time?

"Nothing that can't be...fixed," She mumbled immediately in response, her hand grazing his thigh.

He gave her a playful grin, "A great distraction, of course...but we both know that isn't the issue at hand."

"Really now?" She asked coyly, cocking her head to the side, "I do believe that's the reason I came into your room tonight, Mr. Wayne. I just need some tender love and care."

Bruce pulled himself away, and Selina fought back the urge to roll her eyes. No sentimental talks tonight, thank-you-very much. She wasn't nearly in the mood, and his refusal to play along with her banter was always something that irked her.

"Selina. Speak to me." His gaze met hers again and she wondered for the millionth time that they had been together who the man _really_ was in the relationship. He reached forward and ran his fingers along the pearl necklace at her neck-his mother's, the item she had endeavored to acquire the first time she had met him.

She hadn't taken it off since.

"You know if I let you hide in that scheming little mind of yours, you'll run away as fast as you get the chance to escape me."

Another urge to eye roll, but she smirked instead, meeting his fingers with her own at her neck,

"You know me that well, do you? I'm impressed. But it's nothing you can help me with...just a...hint of boredom."

This caught Bruce's attention. "Boredom? I would have thought you were satisfied the past few months."

"I am," She retorted quickly, turning her gaze to the wall across their bed. It was pristine and white, almost immaculately painted in the way it seemed to glow in the moon's reflection. "But...do you ever...feel like a stranger in your own skin? Like..." She brought her gaze downwards, back to the ring gracing her free hand, fully aware Bruce was watching her with careful scrutiny, trying to read her very bones. "...Like you shouldn't have put away your cape."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. She thought he would be angry at her words, call her mad, or delirious-after all, they were two different types of vigilante. She was a burglar, he was a hero-the fact she wanted to steal again, wanted to plunder, as noble as the concept was to her, the Robin Hood appeal...

He took her chin in his hand. Her eyes widened and she met his steady stare,

"I was the Batman of Gotham. For the lives of the people of Gotham. Protecting them...I wouldn't trade those years for the world, those years of pain, of hardship. It made me who I am. _What_I am."

A pause, pregnant with promise, filled the air. Selina caught her breath at the intensity of his gaze. At the adoration. It chilled her to her bones-it seemed surreal. It seemed remote. She didn't want it, didn't think she deserved it, didn't even think she could _process_it.

"You must feel the same way...but to be safe, and protecting you...I wouldn't trade that either. Not anymore. Those years made you who you were. They made you cunning, they made you strong...but they are _not you_, Selina. You are..."

"So much _more_than that." She repeated quietly, a mantra she had heard time and time again, pounded repetitively into her head, though it never truly stuck.

"Yes," Bruce nearly hissed, gazing almost desperately into her eyes, "I am waiting for the day you finally see that in yourself, Selina. When you see the woman...the woman behind the mask. The woman that..."

The words died before they could leave his lips. She looked down, felt a warm flush on her cheeks. Almost-but they hadn't said it. Not quite. It was suggested-in the ring, the pressing of skin against skin, the steady gazes and the quiet conversations-but it wasn't _there_, not yet.

She didn't know if she could acknowledge it...that feeling for him. She feared the spark of adrenaline it brought to her, the fight-or-flight that burst into her brain, to fight against the bonds of weakness that threatened her, should she allow them to take hold.

"I hope I _do_one day. For both our sakes." She was earnest when she said it, and her hand momentarily went to stroke his face. He closed his eyes at the feel of her skin against his cheek, and she pulled her hand away a second later, went to pull herself from his side and towards the ground.

Bruce's hand clamped around her wrist, with enough pressure that it was almost violent. Selina flinched and looked back at him. His eyes held a silent plea, an expression she was unaccustomed to seeing on his otherwise strong face. The brooding and discontent within her growled and snapped at him from deep within her, yet she nodded and pressed herself against his chest, dug her nails lightly into his back. He groaned at the contact and shut his eyes as she bit his ear, then his lip, and pressed her mouth against his, allowing him to push her down, down, _down_against the sheets of the bed, to press himself against her, into her, to join himself with her.

For a few hours, she felt whole in Bruce's grip-whole and alive and free and unburdened.

And for a few hours, she knew she was living a lie.

In her dreams, she saw darkness, interrupted by the shining light of pearls. The darkness was an ocean, and she was swimming, fighting, as she felt it grab at her and threaten to suffocate her-her hands reached out for the light, the tiny iridescent pearls, but they swam away from her, further and further from her grip, the harder she tried to grab hold. And the darkness grew around her, hissing and snapping and clawing, digging painfully into her body, wrapping in tendrils around her ankles and pulling her under, forcing its way down her throat until it slithered into her lungs, until she could barely breathe, and her hands became sharp and blackened and gnarled, forming razor-sharp tips like claws, and she hissed and scratched and shrieked in her struggle as the darkness sought to crush her, weaken her, suffocate her, become her...

She awoke in a sweat, naked and tangled in thick black sheets. She raised trembling fingers to her neck-felt the scratch marks, pink painful lines burning against her skin. The necklace was broken, three pearls hanging feebly off the string in her palm, the remainder scattered against the bed, speckles of white against black. With a shudder the flung the remainder of the necklace to the ground, shoving her face to her hands, every inch of her skin slippery with sweat and tears.

Selina knew Bruce was wrong about her. There was a limit to who she was-to _what_she was.

And it was only a matter of time until he figured it out.


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Hostage**

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Author's Note: Hello. Thank you all for the lovely follows, faves & reviews :)

This fic will get progressively darker as each chapter continues, since it is a Catwoman Origin story and Selina will have to make some difficult choices which would influence her to become a more villainous/antiheroine character.

I am incorporating some comic book villains-well, one major villain, actually. He/she will be difficult to spot at first but will become obvious later on...I don't think it's a very well known baddie either. (I haven't read the comics pertaining to this particular villain so I hope I do him/her justice and make him realistic enough for the Nolanverse.)

Also, a note: I believe the name of Selina's friend, the blonde, in Dark Knight Rises is Jen. Her partner/friend in the comics is named Holly Robinson. I think they have the same role of being her partner/friend but the names are just changed. Forgive me if I got her name wrong from the movie, though.

P.S. A line break in the chapter means a change in POV. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

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An emerald sat just below her neckline, settling in a gleaming drop of green between her breasts.

It was amongst the only pop of color she would wear that night, save for the much smaller emerald earrings gracing her pale white ears. Since Selina favored black, she was wore a strapless black dress which hugged her curves. Her usual smear of red lipstick on her lips, hair tied back in a simple bun to emphasize her jewels, she considered herself ready for the night. Of course, everything had to be simple, since she was never modest in hiding the pretty gems she conquered, considering them just as rightly a part of herself as her own skin.

Selina gazed at her reflection and watched the girl staring back give her a crooked grin. Perfect. Of course, she wasn't wearing Bruce's pearls-she wondered if he would notice they were missing. She had crawled across the bed and floor so stealthily, having swept up the fallen white jewels with her nimble fingers so carefully that she prayed he would feel the movement in the room and think it a gust of wind in his sleep. The remains had been tucked away in the trunk beneath her bed, holding the only set of possessions she had taken with her before moving into the former Batman's home.

"Well, a little change didn't kill _anyone_, did it?" She asked her reflection, turning to the side so that the fluorescent bulbs in her mirror cast a gleaming light upon the emerald against her skin. Her grin widened and she walked towards the door of her walk-in closet (made with hand-carved mahogany, quite a _steal_), pausing to examine the dagger-sharp stilettos that lined the closet's insides like a pretty, pastel border. The green ones. They would make quite a statement, and would compliment the black and green feathered mask she would wear (along with her cat ears, of course. No matter how many remarks Bruce would make about homeless felines being put to sleep, she would never go without her ears at a masquerade ball. It was like being _naked_.).

She bent forward to pull the heels from her closet just before the phone began to ring. Selina froze in her tracks. Her ears perked up, her lip curling, eyes darting quickly to the slightly quivering, old-fashioned phone at her bedside. It was golden, a perfect replica from the 1900s (she loved to flaunt the Wayne fortune; what else was the point of having so _much_?-)...yet it was rarely ever used, especially since no one from Gotham knew their number in Europe. The only exceptions were Gordon, John Blake, Alfred, Jen...though she hadn't heard from them in ages, and Jen usually called once every few weeks to catch up, inform her proudly of a mugging or stealthy steal she had completed.

Within a second she was at the phone, swiftly picking up the receiver and pressing it to her ear in one lithe movement, stilettos swept into her other hand.

"Hello?" She asked smoothly, her face completely blank. Yet, at the sound of the voice, her brow raised and her brown eyes seemed to darken to match the black of her dress.

"Hello, Miss Kyle."

The voice had a curiously refined tone to it, yet seemed ultimately dead and monotone, as if the corpse of a wealthy man had been brought to life and given a means of communication. She pressed her free hand against the receiver, her shoes falling, forgotten, to the carpeted floor.

"And who might this be?"

Barely a pause. He was witty-smart, fast.

"A friend," He retorted, and she replied just as fast, as if posing a challenge, "I don't have friends."

"Oh?" The voice seemed amused, the first semblance of some sort of emotion in its otherwise apathetic depths, "I believe you do, Miss Kyle. One in particular. And my, isn't she pretty? All blonde hair and frail bones, and so _weak_, as if she could not rely on herself, relied on the wisdom and advice of others. Especially a cat burglar."

Selina paused. A sharp intake of breath, and her hand quivered against the receiver. She stared at the pristine white wall before her, stared and stared until she swore it turned red.

_Jen._

Jen, with her frail body and puffy blonde hair, so incredibly vulnerable yet eager to learn. Jen, who she constantly needed to protect, yet enjoyed the company of, if only for her humor and the incredible amount of love she had for Selina, love she could always see in her wide, doe eyes, the eyes of a follower, a partner, devotee-

This man was calling her on Jen's number. The realization made her lip curl, and she fought back a hostile snarl.

"_What do you want_?" She asked, struggling to keep a measure of calm to her voice-yet she could sense the sharp, biting hostility, as if there were venom dripping from her lips and into the receiver.

A carefully measured silence on the other line, as if the man were thinking; then, a slight, refined chuckle, "Oh come, Miss Kyle, this is nothing to lose your grace over. I did not think such an acquaintance of yours could unravel someone as strong as yourself. And anyway, it is not the girl that I have an interest in. She is merely...a _guest_, so to speak."

"A guest?" She snapped, her brow raised at her reflection in the mirror. She looked as if every part of her body were tensed like a coil, ready to spring and snap at the next moment. The burglar had never seen herself appear so unnerved- she was almost always a mask of cool, calm. Yet perhaps it was because she was alone, alone with herself and the man's voice in her ear, that she allowed herself to appear this way.

Angry. Vengeful. Vulnerable.

"Why, yes," The stranger responded smoothly, his voice a careful knife, sharpened with each biting syllable, "To tonight's dinner. I thought it was rude that Gotham's former elite did not invite their admiring acquaintances, so I took the liberty of doing so myself."

"That is very kind of you," Selina spoke slowly, enunciating each vowel, each consonant, her words impregnated with a silent threat. _'I will destroy you. I will scratch your eyes out with my claws, I will gut you like the scum you are. If you lay one finger on my one friend, on the person who deserves it the least...'_ "Will I have the pleasure of meeting you, tonight?" _'The pleasure of laying you out like a fish?'_

"Hmmm," The voice contemplated slowly, obviously taking pleasure in her silent rage, "I believe I will allow you to reunite with your...other friends, before you have the pleasure of meeting me." She sensed a hint of a smile on the other line, slow and crooked.

Her heart froze at the implication._ Friends?_

"And who might they be?" Her voice held honest curiosity, though she could have stabbed herself with the heel of her stiletto for allowing him to hear her surprise.

"The friends who made you so _irresistibly_ charming, Miss Kyle." He responded with equal surprise, as if such a question were out of place and silly. Her grip tightened on the receiver, white-knuckled and taught.

She wished Bruce was there. But he had gone ahead to the party, and panic shot through her veins in a burst of adrenaline as she realized her so-called friends may have already greeted him.

"I will meet these friends," She said smoothly, her voice a knife that cut through his-taunting, aggressive and biting, "I will meet them and I will give them the proper hello they deserve. And I look forward to meeting _you,_ my newest friend, who I am very certain will be there tonight."

"Oh, is that so?" A laugh on the other line-sadistic yet measured, like a burst of chaos bubbling within the receiver, "Miss Kyle, your reputation does not do you justice. Your friends would like to collect a debt. And if they do not...perhaps I will collect a few things for myself, from you."

The statement was ominous, yet she could not give it the pondering it deserved. Rage settled between her ribs like a disease, growing hot and vicious and steady within her, eating away at her insides. She would hurt this man. She would hurt him badly.

She hung up the phone. Her hands trembled. Selina swept beneath her bed, pulling out a large trunk from its depths, swinging it across the top of the bed with quick precision. Her eyes narrowed at the lock and she dismantled it with a few seconds with carefully honed skill. In an instant her stealth gloves were on her arms-inconspicuous, with fur lining the elbows and sharpened nails made to look as if it were part of a costume, rather than lethal. She ran a clawed finger along the dresser, satisfied to see the wood peel and groan as if in pain beneath her touch. The feathered mask followed, then the cat ears, and her modest black purse, filled with a few accessories. Finally, she pulled out a pair of black stilettos for the special occasion, gleaming sharp and silver at the heel-and immediately threw herself from the open balcony to her room, somersaulting in the air, the wind whipping through her hair. Selina landed perfectly on her razor-thin heels and ran, balancing with the rivaled grace of an acrobat, to the convertible at the back of the mansion.

Nearly pirouetting into the confines of her vehicle, she slammed her heel onto the gas pedal with brutality, as if stabbing through human flesh-her teeth clenched as white as her knuckles on the wheel as she hit 140 miles per hour within seconds, carving through the black roads like a butcher into a slab of meat, deftly avoiding cars and pedestrians as unwanted as bones in her way.

She smelled her own adrenaline, sharp as sweat, against her lips; she heard her heartbeat in her ears, faster and harder than the pound of a drum, screaming a song of urgency deep inside her soul. Yet her mind was blank; focused. Selina had learned to turn her thoughts on and off like a light switch; had learned that, if you allowed them to run free, you would fall prey to panic, and it would snap you up and devour you like a vulture in the dark, waiting for your mental process to die, to cave in upon itself, until your entire plan was foiled and you were nothing more than another feeble wish corrupted by Gotham's ferocity.

She had learned to be cruel, methodical; a predatory machine. And as she gently eased away from the gas and made a sharp, wild turn with her car, so sharp the lithe black convertible nearly flipped over, she knew her careful mask of apathy may not last in Jen's presence.

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The custom-made, diamond-encrusted Rolex watch he had fashioned for himself was a rare luxury, rivaled in fortune only by the expansive amount of money spent upon replenishing his armory after Bane had infiltrated and destroyed it, alongside remodeling the Bat to be stronger than ever (with laser-beam capacities), as well as replacing the damage done by the emergency flood triggered by the awful decision of a building a nuclear reactor.

The Rolex was equipped with the standard time-taking capabilities, as well as a built-in calendar, scheduling device, and GPS locator of several of his vehicles. He was currently scanning the perimeter to monitor the swift advance of his black Lamborghini. He shouldn't have been surprised, but he had not been accustomed to Selina's return to speeding, not since he had known her as a mere acquaintance in Gotham...

_'Maybe she's bored and restless,'_ Bruce thought absentmindedly to himself, a small appreciative grin lining his strong features as he gazed at his wrist amongst the throng of people mingling and speaking all around him in the ballroom, _'Maybe she's concerned with being late...public image in a new place. Or maybe...'_

"Ah, Mr. Wayne!" This had gotten the former vigilante's attention. His gaze snapped up fast-perhaps too fast for a businessman-to meet the smiling, beady-eyed gaze of a man amidst the masquerading guests. He was tall, even taller than himself, perhaps at 6'5''. His build was muscular, yet not the overwhelming girth that was Bane's, more of a lean yet menacing strength. He wore a black suit as expensively cut as Bruce's, yet he noticed with an inward smugness that his tie was cheap and white in comparison.

Bruce was alarmed by the man, since he had been announced as dead in Gotham and had adopted a new identity altogether, keeping a low profile in Europe on his social escapades. He merely attended such dinners and banquets to curb his growing boredom and keep in touch with his familiar, unforgotten habits of old.

Perhaps the most alarming thing was what the man wore to the masquerade. Maybe it was because it was October, and Halloween was but a few weeks away-he had seen masks garishly bejeweled and feathered to resemble peacocks, covered with gold and black liner for Egyptian queens and pharaohs, even a mask with a red circular nose as the guise of a clown...but this was unique.

His entire face was wrapped in bandages, from the forehead to his neck. The only thing Bruce could make out were his smiling eyes, the only hint of expression save for his curiously monotonous voice,

"And who might you be?" Bruce replied with a friendly smile, extending a hand. The man took his hand in a firm grip, their handshake slow and measured-as if they were measuring one another as they spoke.

"Ah, it is not so important," He replied, nodding as if to himself, "I am merely a fan of yours. I am not very fond of these social gatherings, merely a showcase for the elite and their fortune. But I had to take the time to meet you, once I knew you were coming."

"And...who informed you of my whereabouts? I thought they would be quite hidden, considering..." The smile stayed plastered on his face, the usual mask he wore before his guests-a guise of professionalism to hide any sort of discomfort, "my untimely death." Bruce whispered the last few words in mock conspiracy, shaking his head and smirking, but the discomfort at this man's presence grew at the back of his mind.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne, your biggest fans can see through both fact and fallacy!" The man exclaimed, a little too loudly, attracting the stares of a few people nearby. A woman wearing a white-feathered mask, perhaps an Angel, whispered to a man next to her with a top-hat and monocle. Bruce smiled momentarily at them and looked away, coming closer to the man, who seemed unfazed,

"Look, can we speak a little more privately about this?" He asked as courteously as he could, speaking through clenched teeth. His hand clamped around the mummy man's arm. The man's beady eyes looked down at Bruce's hand, an indiscernible look on his bandaged face, yet Bruce continued to smile.

"With that bat mask on your face, you could fool anyone for a fan...but not me. Not when I've known you for so long. Why, it's as obvious as reading ink on paper."

The man's demeanor was ice cold. Bruce detected a threat in his words. His grip on the man stiffened, and they stared at one another for what seemed like forever, their gazes cold, menacing steel.

His mind ran with a million possibilities, as it was trained to-but as to how he would know his identity, both of them, with such...comfort that he could practically read Bruce's mind, he did not know. An acquaintance from his past, perhaps? An enemy he had encountered ages ago, who had been stalking him obsessively-?

It was something more than that, he thought, as he met the man's gaze, became unnerved by the way he stood, as still and cold as a statue, wrapped in bandages. It was more-and it was dangerous.

A small hand laid itself upon his shoulder and he flinched, pulled away from his uncomfortable reverie. It was hand full of quiet strength. He felt a gentle scratch on his shoulders, the claw-like grip that could only belong to Selina. Her lips pressed against his ear in a whisper. "Old friends," she hissed into his ear, and his skin tingled at the contact. She ran her clawed hand in a caress along his back before asking loudly,

"May I have this dance, sir?"

A smile graced Selina's face, looking demure and seductive despite the feathered mask and ears. Her almond eyes held a threat that only Bruce could detect.

"Of course! I can't think of a better way to get to know our guest. Selina is a much more social creature than myself," Bruce regaled the bandaged man with a smile, placing a soft kiss on Selina's lips-a warning.

He walked away as Selina nimbly rushed forward and took the bandaged man's hands in hers, pulling him towards the center of the room. He complied with a cordial smile, yet his eyes narrowed at Bruce's direction. Bruce stared back, interpreting the look as a looming threat. His grip tightened on the cane in his hand.

This would be an interesting night.

* * *

"I thought you would be here."

Selina smiled at the man, her hands in his as she swayed her hips in a slow, formal dance, her gaze almost seductive, "My masked man of the hour."

The man looked down at her blankly, his gaze betraying nothing. His beady eyes bore into her like bottomless pits.

"And who exactly do you think I am, my dear? I believe I am not tonight's entertainment. Sorry to disappoint."

"Really, now?" She inquired demurely, her hands gripping his tightly. Her nails dug into the skin of his palms. Droplets of blood splattered against the marble floor, red splotches like rain. The man did not flinch, yet a savage delight lit within Selina's belly at the sight of the blood. "I beg to differ."

For the first time since she had spoken to him, a smile made the bandages lining his mouth turn upwards, and his eyes lifted with a cruel, hard light. He leaned forward, surprising Selina with the sudden shift of movement, so that her head snapped back and her hands tightened on his wrists-and whispered in her ear,

"I am a distraction, my dear cat. For the cavalry has just arrived-"

She heard the click of the safety before the trigger was pulled. With breakneck speed Selina's heel slammed against the mummy man's foot-he let out a bewildered scream of pain as the hidden knife dug into flesh. Her other foot dove upwards, slicing the air as her heel met the hand of the man behind her in a roundhouse kick, slicing at his hand. Droplets of blood painted the air as the gun flew from his fingers and he grabbed his hand with a curse. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bruce slam his cane into the man's temple with three swift strikes; he shouted and crumpled to the ground. Her heart fell into her stomach. She recognized the man on the ground-she had worked with him before on one of her first heists, a very long time ago.

The crowd around them began to panic and stare at the fallen man. A gunshot echoed through the air and people began to flee, screaming in confused terror, their eyes wide as deer as they stampeded through the double doors of the ballroom. Selina looked about and then growled in frustration as the mummy man grabbed her hair viciously. With surprising strength he pulled her to his chest, disregarding his bleeding, damaged right foot, and pressed a knife from his pocket against her skin. Bruce was nearby, taking on two other thugs in suits with pistols with his cane, which became a foot long with the press of a button. He held it like a pole-one swipe into the nearest thug's gut, since he rushed forward without any tactical skill, and he fell to his knees. The other thug shot at him and Selina gasped, while squinting at the knife cutting against her skin; Bruce twirled the cane until it moved so quickly its steel edge deflected the bullet, and he threw the cane forwards. A sharp metallic blade emerged from the cane like a spear. The gangster's eyes widened in surprise, and, caught off guard, he screamed as the spear hit him square in the chest, lodging its way into his skin. He fell to the floor and Bruce pulled the cane from his body, striking him with its blunt side in the head until he was unconscious.

"Bruce!" Selina screamed-yet he turned too late as the other wounded THUG pulled the trigger of his gun, a bullet hitting the retired Batman square in the back. Bruce grunted yet turned slowly, as if nothing had happened to him. Relief flooded her veins as she realized his suit had been bulletproof, outfitted specifically by Fox.

She was glad her husband was a paranoid man.

Having caught the assailant by surprise, Bruce hurtled forward and struck him in the face with the cane; the man covered his bloodied face with a scream and he knocked him out within seconds.

_'Too easy,'_ Selina thought, grabbing at the bandaged man's arm with her hands and sinking her nails into his skin, struggling to pull herself free from his grip. He did not flinch, his grip hard as steel.

"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, pointing the spear-end of his cane at the man in a silent threat, walking slowly towards the pair, "This is not her fight. Whoever you are, let's settle your score with me right now."

A laugh from the mummy man's lips-long and amused, echoing through the now-empty ballroom,

"I believe that is where you are wrong, Mr. Wayne," he retorted calmly, shaking his head in mock disdain. His knife pressed harder against her throat and she snarled at the pinprick of pain at her skin, at the feeling of blood that dribbled down her throat, settling between her breasts to drip against the emerald she wore, "Miss Kyle is an instrument in our little tete-a-tete, as much as the fallen men, as much as..."

He paused, and Selina could sense the smile playing on his lips, as ominous as a snake's hiss before it attacked,

"...Our young guest."

A girl walked through the double doors. Selina felt the color drain from her face, her heart skipping wildly.

The girl's blonde hair was groomed from its usual wild mane, falling smooth and shiny against her petite frame. She wore a black dress, and cat ears that nearly resembled Selina's, with a simple black mask. She walked forward slowly, clumsily, nearly tripping over her heels twice, barely able to walk in a straight line. She glanced around, appearing confused-her eyes met Selina's and her head cocked in a question, as if she recognized her yet her mind could not register who she was.

"Jen..." Selina whispered, her voice a hollow echo in the air. Her grip on the man's arm slackened as her knees momentarily buckled, her voice trembling, "J-Jen...? It's me..."

The girl stared at her as if she were a complete stranger, yet her eyes were wide in fright, as if she were an enemy. She was trembling slightly, from the quiver in her shoulders to the shaking of her legs, the twitch in her brows. This was not the Jen she knew-not this girl, as weak and frail and quiet as glass, ready to break at the nearest touch. Bile rose in her throat, and she fought back the disgust, mingled with the growing rage that gnawed at her breast.

"What happened to you?" She gasped, and she caught Bruce's gaze as he turned to stare in quiet appraisal at the girl, who eventually stood in place near the double doors, as if walking exhausted her. She stared at Selina, terrified and shaking,

"Who..." Her voice was slow and languid, as thick as if her mouth were full of cotton, "Se-...lina...?"

Selina bit back a sob. For the first moment in years, she was beyond unnerved; her eyes squinted to hold back the tears, as she clenched her fists into the man's arm, new cuts into his sleeve, stomped her heel viciously into the man's other foot, again and again and again, her teeth clenched, a frustrated scream again and again from her teeth with each stomp, each struggle to make the man let her go, to bring him pain, to make him hurt-

Bruce stared at Jen for a moment in stunned silence, then rushed forward, his arm outstretched to help her. To their surprise, Jen leapt to action-she shrieked viciously and pulled herself away from Bruce, pointing a finger at him, "S-stay away. Stay away!" She pulled a knife from her side and slashed wildly at him, her eyes wide and hysterical, her entire body shaking.

"What did you do to her?!" Bruce shouted at the man, who chuckled at Selina's attempt to hurt him, at Bruce's obvious rage.

"I unleashed the potential in the poor girl. She no longer wanted to be overshadowed by her dear Ms. Kyle, who had left her behind in Gotham so cruelly. Left her impressionable and defenseless..."

Metal sliced through the man's bandaged face. He shouted in pain, covering his cheek in surprise. In the second the batarang made contact with his face, his grip on Selina slackened and she threw herself across the marble floor, rolling across the ground before pulling herself up a few inches before Jen. The portion of the man's face that had been revealed to them was completely mangled, a mess of red misshapen skin-already damaged before Bruce had injured him. Selina didn't have time to wonder why.

Jen screamed at her in blind rage and threw herself forward with her knife. She took advantage of the berserk movements of her friend and kicked at Jen's ankles, sweeping her to the ground where she fell and began to sob weakly, face contorted in sheer terror and confusion.

"Jen..." Selena sighed sadly, pulling herself to her feet and hovering over the terrified girl, "What happened to you?"

"Stay away!" The blonde cried hysterically, pressing the knife in a shaky-handed threat to her own breast, "Please! Just leave me alone, please!"

Selina saw Bruce locked in combat with the bandaged man. He struggled to hit him up close with the cane, with his free hand, but the man moved swiftly despite his injuries, with careful tact and precision, as if he could predict Bruce's every move. Selina stared back down at Jen and wondered how she could get away with the girl without her injuring herself, how she could go about fixing her-

She didn't have time to figure it out.

A handful of men with guns ran into the room through the double doors. Their faces were hard and hostile, their weapons ready to be pointed. Running as fast as her heels allowed, she grabbed Bruce by the arm and pulled him with her across the room just as the guns pointed towards them, five fingers on five triggers-

Without any hesitation, Selina flung herself from the balcony of the ballroom, her hand clutching Bruce's in a vice as bullets hailed through the air.


	3. Chapter 3

**3. Codebreaker**

* * *

Author's notes: Hello everyone. Sorry for the delay...my life has literally been focused on one crazy, crazy month since my last update. But I managed to get back on track & bring out a new chapter. Will get a better pace in, now that I have the ball rolling on this story, and have lots of ideas to work with. :) Please Read & Review, & enjoy.

* * *

"Hush."

Selina gazed into the glossy reflection of the huge computer screen, narrowing her eyes at the fractured black letters that outlined the criminal's name. Newspaper clippings from America, Europe, and other locales were displayed, their different languages and layouts a mangled web of chaos and disarray that littered the screen. In her head she counted ten, twenty headlines-all recent, within the past five years...yet none of them so huge a spectacle that they ever made the front pages. Her hands balled into fists at her sides-she wished she could tear her sharpened nails into the screen, open a black hole in its innards and forcibly pull the information out, the information she so desperately needed now, when her eyes saw the red of blood that was glorified in all her rage, so that it seemed like a gleaming, shining ruby that flowed in liquid form across her vision...

Never in recent years had she wanted to spill blood so vengefully before. So coldly. To her the ends had always been robbery, and the means were never so extreme as cold bloodshed-though, she had to admit, she did not have an entirely clean slate. She had killed accidentally, killed in "self-defense" (when you are pulling contents from a safe, and a house guest rudely interrupts you with a pistol pointed at your back-well, what other choice do you have?), had killed Bane himself...but never simply for the enjoyment of it. But this man with the bandaged face, who had taken and manipulated and pumped Jen full of drugs for whatever reason he had...

She wanted no mercy for him. She wanted him laid out beneath her, scratched to a mess of skin and bandages by her own, bloodied claws.

"No clue as to what his name is? Where he comes from? Even a voice recording, fingerprints...a_nywhere?_"

Her voice held a razor sharp edge; Bruce looked up from his seat at the computer's screen, his fingers frozen against the glossy black panel and its large keys. Their eyes met for a moment-his were warm and comforting, as always, yet seemed troubled at her tone.

"He's elusive. He knows what he is doing, he plans and seems to prefer staying out of the spotlight. Must mean he's up to something much bigger than he has been of late..."

Selina tore her gaze away and bit her lip, smearing red lipstick against immaculately white teeth, "And it involves dragging random people into his pathetic little plot? I think his vendetta is personal. And I think it has to do with _you."_

Again, their gaze met. She wondered if she appeared accusing, if her stare was seething, boring into Bruce's soul. She wondered if she sought to blame him for something, though it was not in her intention-but within her eyes, within her very soul, she felt the familiar fire that led her to cause chaos of her own; whether it be robbery, mayhem, mischief. But now it was a searing, white-hot flame that burnt her as it grew, a bonfire that would soon eat away at her bones and become wild. Bruce's eyes wrinkled and lowered for a moment.

"Whatever it has to do with," He countered as coolly as he could, and, as much as she hated to admit it, Selina felt a surge of hope and strength fill her at his confident tone, "We will deal with it, and we will nip it at the bud. Hush needs to be stopped before his plan is put any further into action. It may not require my coming back as Batman, it may not require _you-"_ He paused, then, to nod his head and look up and down at her, his own voice holding something of accusation-_'No way are you going back to your former days as a burglar,'_ It silently hissed to her, making her heart heavy, _'I won't let you get out of control, back to hasty jobs and consorting with evil men...' _

"...To take any action whatsoever, but it will be dealt with. _That_ I can promise."

Selina stared at him for what felt like a a very long time. The cave around them brought cool air that embraced her slender frame, like a second skin-cool and oddly comforting. Although the cave resembled a yawning black abyss, the sound of fluttering wings and the squeak of bats was more of a symphony than a cacophony to her ears. She could hear the water that flowed and seemed to gently ripple beneath the platform where they stood, feel the cold draft press into her flesh, her fingertips-and then, without thinking, she drifted to Bruce, and brought her lips to his neck, and he shut his eyes and pressed his fingers against the soft skin of her collarbone, and she was drifting into the dark, comforting embrace of him, taking in the scent of his cologne and bare skin, the fragile skin of his neck beneath her reddened lips and nipping teeth...

Her nails dug into his back, and he flinched, yet he held her as still and solid as a statue. Normally she would feel as if she were in a stone prison-his embrace still didn't settle quite right with her, like being held in a cage, left to mewl and scratch feebly at its smothering confines. Yet now she felt at home, she felt safe, in a foundation of stone and strength and power. She was in Bruce's arms, in the Batman's arms, and everything from his strong silence to the hard muscle beneath her fingertips was _hers, hers_ to mold, to scratch, to shape, to protect and hold over her...

She tore her lips away from his neck and brought her nose to his. Their lashes touched-she felt his sharp intake of breath, received some hollow satisfaction that she still had that effect on him. It satiated the deep insecurity beneath her bones, a darkness she struggled to push away each day.

_'Don't leave me,'_ She thought, and the very idea was a thread that nearly unraveled the fabricated calm in her brain.

"Promise me," She said, her breath intermingling with his, becoming one against the cold air, the gentle ripple of the water beneath them, "Promise me you will avenge Jen."

Her nails in his back, she felt his muscles shift beneath her hands. Felt his mind work, in the knotting of his brows, the adoration in his eyes. The lust she felt pulse through her own, as he took her leg and brought it up to his torso, his strong hand carrying the weight of her slim thigh; the weight of her body and soul, tattered and scarred and utterly imperfect. He pressed his body against her, as they stood in the center of the platform, the computer still humming behind them, his lips searing hot against her forehead, then her ear,

"I promise you I will bring him down. I will be your knight."

She pulled him to her, her arms around his waist, and they dragged themselves down, down onto the stone, limbs wrapped around one another, and she bared her neck to him, and he became a part of her, so that for a few feeble hours, he was the world she knew, and he was _hers._

And for a few feeble hours, when she closed her eyes to ecstasy, Jen's screaming face did not haunt her in the darkness.

* * *

They were back at Wayne Manor.

Of course, it was technically Pennyworth Manor, now-since Bruce was dead.

The tombstone still lay embedded in the back of the courtyard, nestled in between his parents' modest graves. As according to ritual, a ritual that sought to fool all around them, Alfred would go out to the manor grounds at promptly 7 a.m. every Monday morning, after having his coffee and Earl Grey, and lay a fresh wreath of primroses, lilies and daisies at each grave. Bruce's would come with a few roses, of course, since they were his favorite flower.

The orphanage was run by Alfred, as well, and was constantly bustling with the brightest, kindest children. They were young and bubbly, yet you could see the age in their eyes-it would be dark and haunting to some, but Wayne Manor had always been encased in darkness, the kind of darkness that you adapted to, that taught you to see through the starless night with bright, strong eyes. He saw promise in their fragile gazes, saw the strength that normal people would overlook in orphans-the strength of grown men, that with careful precision and care, you could hone and polish. He would stop by and speak to each of the twenty children at the orphanage every morning, and meet with Miss Flore-the supervisor he had handpicked for the job-with a report on each child's performance, the status of foster parents and tentative adopters. Two children had successfully found a home, while the others seemed quite a bit attached to the huge manor and its rare welcoming atmosphere. They would grow out of it, however, as all children did. It was only a matter of time.

Alfred found himself sitting in the dining room of the manor, a room that had not been used since Bruce's untimely demise. He poured a fresh pot of tea into three exquisitely carved cups, imported from Morocco, and laid his elbows casually against the hand-carved mahogany table. His smiling gaze met that of Bruce, and a chill ran down his spine-he was sitting and meeting with a ghost, of course, and his lovely wife, Miss Kyle, who watched him with a resolute, determined air. Her eyes were large, brown almonds, eyes that could have mirrored one of the children in the orphanage-yet they held a tainted quality in their vast black pupils, an air of superiority, the strength of a female who knew with every inch of her being just how beautiful she was, and knew how to make it an art, to make it malleable.

To manipulate.

Yet he knew she loved Bruce dearly, could tell in the way her fingers crept carefully to his side, her hand on his knee beneath the table. He could tell when her fierce gaze, the gaze of a panther emerging from a scalding hot fire-wounded yet ferocious-seemed to soften to that of a house-cat when he focused his attention upon her. And he could, of course, detect a hint of fear...fear at domination, yet the lust of the strength that her owner presented. But perhaps owner was not the right word, for Bruce had certainly found an equal within Miss Kyle-equal measures of mischief, inflated ego, a sense of misplaced superiority and a heart that lay very well intact although it beat quite slowly and stubbornly against the madness of the world.

Stuck within his thoughts, Alfred was taken by surprise when Bruce slammed his hand upon the table.

"Yes, Master Wayne?" He jumped a bit in his seat, and went back to folding his pale, wrinkled hands before his smiling face. He could not help but constantly smile, now that the ghost of Bruce had returned for a visit.

"Alfred, did you hear a word of what was just said?" Bruce asked him smoothly, though he could see a smirk that mirrored his own on the retired billionaire's features. Selina grinned against the cup of tea on her lips, forming a cupid's bow that caressed its edge.

"No, Master Wayne, I'm afraid not. Perhaps you should speak a bit more emphatically about the matter."

His biting sarcasm was still easy, despite his nearly 70 years of speaking the sharp tongue. He had been the one to teach Bruce how to sharpen his mind to make such cool yet rude remarks, and between them, the dialogue was a never ending, silent battle.

"Well, Alfred, perhaps your hearing is finally escaping you." Bruce raised a brow in challenge to retort. Alfred tasted the slightly bitter tea with relish, puckering his lips just slightly in response, before bringing the cup in a smooth, quick motion back towards its saucer. He dabbed his lips with a handkerchief that had been tucked at his lap,

"I'd like to think that, when a person is in the grave for so long, they tend to lose touch with reality, along with their humanity and perhaps their common sense."

"When you meet a ghost among your elderly delusions, be sure to let me know if that is true." Bruce snapped back easily, and the two of them nodded to one another in a silent stalemate.

Selina took the few seconds of silence as a queue, and cleared her throat quite audibly. Both Bruce and Alfred snapped to attention, turning their gazes towards her. She seemed pensive, though not without an appreciative smirk at their banter,

"Good to know the men in my life are still immature at heart," She quipped, casually wiping blots of red lipstick from the edge of her teacup, "But I'd like to think we have more important matters to discuss-...correct me if I'm wrong, gentlemen."

She nodded towards the two of them, her voice thick with sarcasm. The bun that held her hair captive atop her head trembled slightly as she nodded towards them, and Alfred thought it was a symbol of her composure at the moment. He had a way of seeing through people as clearly as if their outsides were no more a looking glass. She seemed troubled beyond her usual self, her usual careful, cool guise a crumbled mess. This is what captured his attention; the thought of her trembling like a violin string, being pulled too tightly for comfort. Bruce's gaze was full of concern as he watched her speak. Everything connected in Alfred's head at that moment, and he stiffened in his seat.

There was a new terror on Gotham's streets-and it was big; big enough for Selina to seem troubled, big enough for Bruce to come from hiding and ask his confidant and friend for aid. He prepared himself and nodded towards Selina, "What's on your mind, Miss Wayne?"

The name made Selina stiffen a bit, yet she continued smoothly, "Well, Mr. Pennyworth. We were wondering, since you took such a big role in raising Bruce as a child...if you know if he had any..." She paused, her fingers trembling as subtle as a leaf against a branch along her cup, "...Enemies within his past. Friends with vendettas. People he has scorned. Personal histories, that didn't end so well."

Alfred studied her intently, then turned his gaze to Bruce. His face was pleading-his hand was placed at the back of Selina's chair, as if to offer comfort. He understood. The attack had not been geared upon Bruce personally, but upon his lovely new wife.

Alfred nodded to himself, then looked at the couple before him, "You are both vigilantes at heart. You two know that Bruce has countless enemies-envious of his position, envious of his generous spirit, though I question how this particular person, whoever it may be, would know that Bruce is still alive. I do think we carried the farce of his death well enough, though I suppose there have been a few cracks we allowed slip through the surface..."

"Meaning this person knew me quite well to see through the curtains of our act." Bruce supplied quietly, and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he spoke, "Well enough to know Selina, well enough to know I was in Europe..."

"Bruce," Selina said quietly, looking down into the hot contents of her cup, as if she were scrying, struggling to tell a fortune from the liquid's swirling depths, "They know you are the Batman. You told me this. And they seem to know much, much more than that."

"Or were the Batman, as it may seem," Alfred interjected calmly, though Bruce stiffened in his seat, his eyes widening momentarily, "Enemies of the past have known this. Bane knew such a thing, and eventually, he fell with all the rest. He was a mountain in a valley of madmen, yet he too, could be toppled. Such a thing you have proven, time and time again."

His words seemed to offer a tourniquet to Bruce's wounded spirit, and he nodded quietly at Alfred's words. Selina's hand went back to his knee, and she stared resolutely at the side of his face as Alfred spoke, perhaps trying to fill him with the same confidence he was attempting,

"You retired your mask-this I know. This all of Gotham knows. You are their legend, their dark knight. But heed my words, Bruce-this person wants to wreak havoc in both your life, and eventually, Gotham's. The city is still your pulse, as much as you are theirs-and with this, they will seek to coax the Batman out of his cave once again."

The silence seemed ominous. Alfred brought his hands to the teapot, feeling its heat resonate through his limbs, crawling from his fingertips to his arms. The thought of the havoc Bane wreaked in Gotham's past sent a chill through his spine, the thought of Bruce's broken back, bones, and spirit-the horror of not seeing him for months on end, while Gotham fell into a whirlpool of destruction and chaos, the thought of Bane's bloody reign, repeated, perhaps magnified...

"We will not have that." Bruce's response was resolute, his lips pursed in a line across his face.

Alfred saw it, but Bruce didn't-Selina looked down, biting her lip.

She disagreed completely.

"What do you suppose, Miss Kyle?"

She looked up at him, her head snapping faster than the felines she once sought to emulate. Amusement nipped at his thoughts as she noticed his change of names, seemed more comfortable with the guise of Miss Kyle.

"Does my opinion matter so much, when _Master Wayne_ made up his mind?" She meant it to sound lighthearted, but failed miserably.

"As Master Wayne's _wife,_ partner and confidant, it matters very much." Bruce kept his gaze to the teacup in his hands, yet Alfred watched Selina as he spoke, "What do you suppose we do, about this new threat?"

Selina raised her head resolutely. He saw the fire in her eyes, turning docile almonds to red-hot coals-he saw the thirst in her lips, bringing them to tremble ever so slightly, could envision her words without her even speaking.

"I say we eliminate it completely." Her voice was a whisper, seductive and enticing, yet edged with violence, the dark urge to spill blood that begged to be spilled. He watched Bruce's gaze darken in disapproval, yet Selina seemed mollified by her own words, as if her pent up need for vengeance were finally voiced.

And there was the problem, Alfred mused. The vigilantes had their extremes. The knight and the thief-bat and cat. Justice and..._vengeance?_ No, something deeper than that.

Retribution. Manipulation.

He struggled to find the word to describe her motives, yet could not reliably find one to completely unfurl the enigma before him.

Power. Controlled mayhem.

Perhaps _she_ was not even sure of what she truly was, of what she truly wanted. She sat firmly in her seat, a ball of beautiful darkness and unhinged control, black-nailed fingers laced before her, while Bruce gazed intently at her. Adoration mangled by disapproval.

What a paradox it all was.

* * *

Selina left the dining room and welcomed the cold, biting embrace of autumn with relish. She walked down the courtyard, heeled boots clicking against the stone stairs, the dagger tips as constantly unstable if she were walking in stilts. Balance was key-and she began to marvel at how it was the key to everything. Especially with..._delicate situations_, such as the one she was currently dealing with. She turned her head towards Bruce, who walked a good foot away from her at her right side. He did not meet her gaze. She looked down until they were walking on level ground, and scratched her nails against the inside of her palms,

"You know your code may have to be _bent_ a bit, Bruce," She spoke to him as tenderly as she could, her voice a warm saturation to the frigid air, "Bane could not go down so easily, so we had to take matters into our own hands..."

"I have _nothing_ to do with you killing Bane, Selina, nothing. And I will _not_ let someone else die so quickly, enemy or not!" Bruce snapped, his voice carrying across the empty courtyard. Selina's jolted in surprise-she stumbled for a second upon her feet, then stood in place, just as still as Bruce. Seconds of silence passed by, tense and hot. Bruce's face appeared haunted.

She found, to her dismay, she had no way of understanding his cold rage. A rage as moral as the thought of _killing a killer, a villain_...? She had been the one to fire the shot to kill Bane, yes, but Batman had _needed_ her, had been weakened by Thalia and overpowered momentarily in his fight against the madman. No prison could hold him, not even the black hole of a prison he found himself in during his youth. Death had been the only option, and now Bruce was being stubborn and nonsensical.

"Selina," Bruce murmured, his voice deceptively soothing against the frustration in his eyes, "Hush attacked us...once. He may not need to be killed. I understand you want vengeance for Jen, for her kidnap and whatever else-"

"It's not just for Jen," She shot back quickly, her voice high and self-assured, "It's for _you and I,_ Bruce! Can't you see that? He is going to manipulate us, pit us against one another like game pieces, and we will not know how far his manipulation goes until it destroys us. He _knows_ your code, Bruce-and he knows where I stand. We need to put the fire out before it burns out of control. Before it burns _us._" Her voice held a pleading tone that surprised her, then-the tone of a child, of a needy girl, of a _begging_ girl.

_'Don't leave.'_

Bruce's lip curled at her. She thought she saw disgust in his eyes, for the first time she had known him. Even when she had stolen his pearls, it had been curiosity and intrigue. But now...it was as if he punched her in the gut. She took in a sharp breath, her hand going to her side.

"Yes, Selina," He agreed coolly, before turning on his heel to begin to walk away, "You need to put the fire out. You need to act like a _human being_."

Selina stared at him as he walked away. It had been their first argument, and it sent a blast of pain through her ribs, something deeper and more hurtful than a knife could have ever been.

She let him leave.

Perhaps he needed to relax and see things how they really were. She began to pace along the courtyard, her mind a web of thoughts, her desire to destroy the man who sought to meddle in their lives the spider.

But nothing was ever really black and white.

Perhaps Batman needed to know that. Needed to learn it. Even after the anarchy in the past-The Joker, Bane, every other sadistic face, heinous act, every drop of blood that had been shed...he still clung to justice like air to his lungs, blood to his veins, the beating in his heart.

It was admirable. But, as she continued to pace across the courtyard, breath making icy clouds in the frigid air, she knew it was foolish.

She came across the Orphanage. An idea came to her head, and she pulled her phone from her coat pocket and brought it to her ear,

"Mr. Lucius Fox. Yes, Miss Wayne speaking. I need to ask you for a few favors. And..." she paused, biting her lip. Red smeared on white. "...Please, keep it between us."


End file.
